


the syntax of things

by Clo



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-28 02:44:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15038951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clo/pseuds/Clo
Summary: Sascha suggests a solution to their shared misery over losing; Novak counters with some life lessons. The whiskey's just there to ease everyone along.





	the syntax of things

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote a thing! No one is more surprised than me, after six months of barely writing a word. Unexpected house moves y'all; just say no. Cautiously optimistic that this is me clambering back on the writing bandwagon at last though.
> 
> After resisting for over a year, I fell (like an anvil off a cliff) for Sascha Zverev flirting with Yorkshire reporters at the French and it was all downhill from there. This started as a short PWP after both Novak and Sascha lost on the same day at Roland Garros but, then I happened to it and, unsurprisingly, it grew enormous and unwieldy and possibly trying to say something, although I'm mostly in it for the pretty boys in shorts.
> 
> All of whom own themselves and shouldn't be reading this. Thanks to ee cummings, that AO3 stalwart of titles, for a title when I had none despite two weeks of trying. Screenshot at the end borrowed from Twitter. 
> 
> Warnings: None really, maybe for background angst. They're good boys; they'll all get there in the end. Apologies for typos; I wrote half of this on my terribly slow netbook and it thinks that the space bar is an optional extra most of the time. As I notice them, I'll fix them.
> 
> How did this get so long. *How*. No one, not even Novak, knows.

* * *

 

 

Sascha’s alone on the bench in the locker room, hunched over with his head in his hands. Down on the bench because he’s too exhausted to stand, alone in the locker room with only silence echoing back from the banks of empty lockers and the smell of stale tennis balls, because most of the guys who started the tournament have already lost.

Like him. A loser, again. When he’d thought maybe this was the time after he’d done the impossible three times over, the euphoric feeling like he was verging on a miracle and he’d thought-

Exhaling a long, soft curse, he cuts that self-pity spiral off and stares at his clay-dyed sneakers that’ll be going in the bin in the corner before he leaves. It doesn’t matter what he’d thought this morning, despite rolling out of bed in the not-quite-ostentatious suite he’d treated himself to and finding that the tennis demons had replaced all his joints with concrete overnight. Doesn’t matter that he’d stayed in a hot shower for over an hour and had a massage that left him biting off sobs of pain into the towels, or the way Jez had looked at him with the quiet understanding that they both knew that he was utterly fucked and no last-minute physio in the world could erase the imprint of three five-setters in a row.

Doesn’t matter that he had all of that, all of the evidence in the world-

-and part of Sascha, the part that flickers like a firework in the darkness of bland hotel rooms and endless gym sessions, the part that he knows objectively is just the driving arrogance of all the best tennis players, still thought he could win. Had been convinced that _this was the one_.

He’s such an idiot; of course it was never going to be his trophy to lift. Not when he’s run himself into the clay. It might be Dominic’s now – and _don’t think about that_ , the way it makes his stomach swoop uncomfortably and misery prick behind his eyes. He’d be happy for Dominic of course; in spite of everything between them the last few months, they’ve spent so long circling each other on a tennis court and off it that seeing Domi win a Slam would be the next best thing to winning it himself.

But in the quiet of the empty locker room, just between him and his clay-ruined shoes, Sascha can admit that he’d wanted it to be him, first.

Instead he’s down on the locker room bench with his phone silent beside him and leg aching like he’d tied knots in his hamstring. He can’t bring himself to move, hasn’t since he walked out of press an hour ago because for now everyone thinks he’s busy elsewhere, went back to the hotel when he told them _‘no point waiting_ ’ before press and they all heard the unspoken _leave me alone for a bit_. He’s taking the spare time to wait, sit for a bit, until he has enough energy to trudge back there with a plastered-on smile and say to them all ‘next time, yeah?’ without it turning sour on his tongue.

He’s no closer to it now than he was when he walked in here an hour ago. Part of him is wondering if he can just sit here all night.

A burst of sound as the door’s flung open is all the more surprising after so long in the quiet, sharp as a sudden knife through the silence and he almost ducks on a reflex, like an idiot. Of course he’s been interrupted; what does he expect if he chooses to sulk in the men’s locker room? He’ll just have to smile stiffly, collect his stuff and slink out – he’s half hidden behind a bank of lockers so he might not even have to make eye contact.

Unless it’s Dominic- unless Sascha’s night is about to get even more awkward –

‘No, give me an hour and I see you back at the hotel?’

It’s Novak’s voice, and the tight-clenched knot of panic in Sascha’s stomach relaxes slightly. Novak sounds tired but otherwise the same as always, wrapped in the even-layered cordiality that he wears like armour around everyone on the tour. Impossible to tell if he’d won but he was just winning the third when Sascha walked out of press so, probably; it’s not as if luck is on Sascha’s side enough today for him to to avoid anyone and everyone flush with their own success.

At least Novak will have enough sympathy – or disinterest; with Novak it’s sometimes hard to tell – to let him escape without a conversation. Sascha picks up the strap of his tennis bag from beneath the bench, lifting it with a grimace as he starts to stand up.

Someone says something sharp from out in the corridor and Novak replies through the door he’s holding open, a low murmur in any of his handful of languages and then there’s the click of the door closing. Hidden behind the lockers, holding his breath, Sascha listens to the quiet – did Novak duck back out again? Maybe he can sneak out while-

The _crack_ like bone breaking has Sascha startling worse than Lövik at thunder, dropping his tennis bag in a clatter of racquets. Heart hammering, he half-sprints, half-falls around the lockers picturing Novak on the floor, passed out or with a broken ankle, already wondering which language he should use to yell for help.

It’s somewhat anti-climatic to stumble out and find Novak standing, perfectly fine, staring down at a racquet smashed on the tiles by his feet.

‘Oh,’ Sascha says lamely and when Novak startles, head snapping up with his eyes gone wide, ‘sorry.’ A beat and then, because Novak looks _stricken_ and the tension is verging on unbearable, he adds, ‘I did not mean to ruin your discussion with your racquet. Carry on, I leave you two alone.’

For a second Novak stares at him, the echo of rage still lingering in the tense set of his shoulders. All that cordiality is just a cover, Sascha knows, a disarming mechanism that Novak’s manufactured over the years – some guys on tour think winding him up is good entertainment, that he’s the easy target when he isn’t Roger, isn’t Rafa, and doesn’t have the awe that trails behind them everywhere they go. Novak mostly deals with it by ignoring it but, as someone with a genuinely buoyant attitude to life, Sascha can tell when someone else is pretending and Novak pretends with the best of them. Usually pretending to be the calm centre of every storm or whatever nonsense he spouts to journalists makes him – well, mostly _actually_ calm, but the act does keep him from lashing out at anything other than his racquets.

Still if he’s actually lost, with all that means for his ‘comeback’ and the way he’s staring as if he’s still riding the wave of anger, wants to take it out on the first thing he touches...that could make Sascha nervous.

 _Could_ , if he wasn’t head and shoulders taller than Novak and about twice his weight at this point with all the rumours in the locker room that Novak’s only eating a handful of lettuce leaves for breakfast, lunch, and dinner; if the Serb does swing for him, Sascha rates his chances pretty high in that match. Even on one working leg.

Doesn’t mean he fancies a fistfight in the locker room though – not when he gets on as well with Novak as anyone does these days, and especially not when Novak looks torn between throwing a punch and bursting into tears.

As gently as he can with his own leftover misery thickening his voice, Sascha asks, tentative, ‘Novak?’

Novak blinks, almost as if he’s surprised to be reminded of his own name. ‘Hi Sascha,’ he says after a long pause and rubs a hand over his face, smearing clay dust over his forehead. Just before he lets his hand drop, Sascha realises it’s trembling. ‘Sorry. I did not think there was anyone here or I would not have-’ His mouth twists into a grimace when he waves at the racquet. It’s definitely not going to be winning – or losing – any more matches.

‘It’s fine,’ Sascha says, ‘sometimes they deserve it.’

Looking between the murdered racquet and Novak’s cracking veneer of calm that’s barely covering homicidal disappointment, he weighs up his options. Between the suffocating sympathy of his family and team back at the hotel, and the promise of violence quivering in the curl of Novak’s fists, there’s no contest.

He steps over the remains of the racquet, right up into Novak’s personal space, barely has time to catch the widening of Novak’s eyes again before Sascha pulls him into a hug.

‘Fuck today, huh?’ he murmurs into the sweat-damp softness of Novak’s hair. The Serb must’ve just walked off court; he’s fever-hot, his black court shirt sticking to the curve of his back under Sascha’s hands, and the all-over trembling could be adrenaline as much as anger, the fading echoes of jeers from the unsympathetic French crowd. Sascha knows because he can still hear them himself.

Slowly, as if his better judgment is trying to talk him out of it, Novak’s shoulders relax. After another pause that’s probably mostly for show, his arms come up to loop, light, around Sascha’s waist.

‘You are old enough to know by now that this is not how this is supposed to work,’ he says, quietly. ‘There are no friends in tennis, unspoken agreements, breaking many years of locker room tradition and all, we have to keep pretending is all important.’

He undermines his own point by letting his forehead rest tiredly against Sascha’s shoulder and Sascha makes a soft, dismissive sound.

‘Next you will be complaining that us kids have no respect. Take the hug, old man.’

‘You kids all have no respect,’ Novak mumbles obediently but tucks his hands into the small of Sascha’s back, fingers tangling in the fresh shirt he’d yanked on for press as if he needs to hang on to something to keep himself still. After a minute, he muffles a whimper of pure frustration into Sascha’s shoulder. ‘ _Fuck_. I hate you all, you know.’

Marco beat him then. Sascha already figured but it’s still a surprise to hear it confirmed; even with the Italian two sets up when he’d seen the score earlier, Sascha hadn’t believed he could pull that one off. No wonder Novak’s smashing racquets.

‘Today I hate us all too,’ he confesses and, when Novak leans back sharply, he meets the questioning look with a shrug. ‘What, you think I am hiding in the locker room all pathetic because I am so happy I won?’

Novak’s hitch of a half-shrug is as much apology as dismissal. ‘I only now walk off but I see score before we go on and I think, maybe you make it one more miracle you know? Sorry. At least now I not have to lose to you again.’

It’s meant as a joke obviously but the uptick in it falls flat when, for an instant, Novak’s tone shades too savage and laced with self-loathing. Both of them register it and the tension is instantly back in Novak’s shoulders, suddenly stiff against the circle of Sascha’s arms. Under the florescent lights he looks wan and unhappy, bitterness tugging down the corners of his mouth.

‘Novak?’ Sascha says, annoyed with himself when it creeps out uncertainly. He considers the handful of things any other player might say, what anyone might say to him after a tough loss and how little he ever wants to hear any of it.

Instead, because he’s too worn out to second guess himself and Novak is warm, still trembling a little in his arms, before he can let himself reconsider he says, ‘I am sorry you lost. Want to blow everyone off and go get drunk with me?’

‘ _Fuck_ , Sascha!’ Novak lets go like he’s suddenly red-hot, trying to take a step back. ‘You are really too young to be asking me this.’ Raising his eyebrows when he can’t budge the grip Sascha has on his shirt he tries to yank away, both of them stumbling a step across the tiles with Sascha trying not to wince. ‘I mean it, is not a good idea.’

Sascha doesn’t let go; Novak’s making a token effort, not putting all his weight into breaking loose and there’s a flush of colour back in his face already, his glare snapping with exasperation. If nothing else, Sascha’s distracting him – distracting them both.

Also, everyone treating him like a child is getting distinctly tiresome. He’s fed up of only ever being young enough to lose, not to be taken seriously.

‘I am _not_ too young, even if we were in America,’ he says and lets his tone go coaxing. ‘Come on. We have fun, right? Cheer ourselves up?’

‘Right up until Mischa punches me for corrupting his tiny brother,’ Novak points out – or rather, up, when Sascha pointedly straightens to his full height to loom over him and give him the sad face, the one that always makes Mischa throw a pillow at him and then surrender whatever snack he was about to eat because he’s a soft touch. ‘No, _stop_ that. I am not getting drunk with you baby Zverev, not when I remember you stealing racquets almost as tall as you from my tennis bag to play table tennis with. Do you even _drink?_ Go be sad all over your brother and let me go to press.’

He almost seems to mean it, so Sascha lets his hands loosen. Doesn’t take them away completely though, drifting down to Novak’s hips to linger in the lightest brush of fingertips.

‘Fine,’ he says and adds, deliberate, ‘if you want to be a boring old man about it.’

The snap of fury in Novak’s eyes is beautiful in its predictability. ‘Say that again,’ he warns, ‘and I make you regret it.’

Confident and easy, knowing he’s winning this one, Sascha grins at him. ‘What’re you going to do… old man?’

Novak’s answer is to shove him away, hands hard on Sascha’s shoulders with surprising sincerity. A stab of pain flares up Sascha’s thigh when he trips backwards, barely catching himself on the edge of the lockers and rights himself, taking a few deep breaths before he can put weight on his leg again. It aches but, thankfully, doesn’t give.

Still, the reminder of how fucked he is washed away all his good humour. Meeting Novak’s glare with one of his own, Sascha ignores the flicker of guilt he thinks he sees in the Serb’s expression, running right over what might be the start of an apology.

‘Fine,’ he snaps. ‘If you want to stay here and sulk, me and Domi will-’

His voice lodges like a splinter in his throat because that was automatic, pairing them off. But he can’t go anywhere with Dominic, not tonight or maybe ever, and remembering is a little like being handed his own heart, ripped from his chest and still beating in his palm. Anger dissipated as fast as it flared up, he stares down at his shoes again and tries not to let the misery catch too audibly when he takes a few deep breaths.

In the sudden quiet, he can feel Novak watching him but can’t bring himself to speak, not when his voice might crack. Maybe the Serb will just leave; it’s what he wanted, anyway.

Instead, after a long pause Novak says, conversationally,

‘So, how long have you two been fucking?’

When Sascha snaps up to glare at him, trying to suppress the rush of kneejerk panic – it’s a _secret_ – Novak waves a dismissive hand. ‘Calm down, we all know you are but how long, that is the question we cannot decide.’

‘You-’ Shit, when he says _all,_ does he mean the entire tour? They’d thought they were being careful, except for that time in the showers in Halle. And in the gym in Rome. Oh, and in the hotel pool in Montreal and that once in Dominic’s car when they were roadtripping to Kitzbuhel, total mistake for Sascha to take his shirt off when they pulled in to the pinic spot beside the beautiful clear river, and the beautiful mountains, but he still dreams of the way Dominic looked at him with a quiet, covetous stare like he was the most beautiful thing of all –

Okay. Maybe they could’ve been more subtle.

‘You are not subtle,’ Novak says and _fuck,_ can he _read minds_? ‘I think for a while you and Melo but I think he have more sense than to be so obvious. Also, I ask him and he act like I accuse him of cradle snatching so I think, maybe not.’

‘You ask him,’ Sascha says, hollow, ‘if we are fucking?’

He’s going to have to let Marcelo beat him at Playstation for the next ten years to apologise – not that it hasn’t crossed his mind on occasion but he’s always known the Brazilian considers him a little brother and sometimes a partner in crime, picking up the pieces Sascha’s been left in for the last few months but nothing else. It would’ve been easier if he had, in a way – Sascha likes him, likes the uncomplicated ease of their friendship (if Novak hasn’t _ruined_ it) – but instead there’s always been Dominic, always.

Novak quirks a sardonic eyebrow. ‘Was he lying?’

‘ _No_.’ Sascha bites off the annoyance before it can turn into a shout, and takes a deep breath. Since secrecy is fucked anyway, no point lying now.

‘It’s been- me and Dominic, for a while,’ he admits, voice rough. He won’t commit himself more than that; he’s known Dominic a long time and the tennis tour makes you grow up fast. Although, of anyone Novak might get that and he’s listening, leaving space in the conversation for Sascha to carry on, so he tries to brush it off: ‘It’s not a big deal. He says it is not so so serious, just messing around yeah? No reason to make it _awkward._ ’

His own tone shades into vicious on the last word, failing to mask his hurt, but he doesn’t expect Novak to flinch as if that one landed a little too hard. The Serb bends to pick up his tennis bags discarded carelessly by the door, covering his expression by ducking his head but Sascha catches the strain to it and frowns.

He’s pretty certain that Novak doesn’t have a thing for Dominic so why should that-

 _Oh_. ‘That’s what _you_ said,’ Sascha realises, saying it slowly out loud as he connects two and a half years of scattered gossip. ‘To Andy-’

Novak comes out of his crouch like a snake striking, tennis bags scattering as he fists a handful of Sascha’s t-shirt and slams him back, up against the lockers with a thump that knocks Sascha’s breath loose. He has to go on tiptoe to look Sascha in the eye but he’s mad enough to do it, gone pale and his voice razor-edged, accent thick in the way it goes when he’s furious.

‘ _Do not_ talk about what you do not understand.’

‘What, that Andy was in love with you and you fucked him in the showers for years before Jelena put a cage on your dick after the French in ‘16?’ Even with the bruised ache of his back against the lockers, Sascha surprises himself when that comes out of his mouth; it’s Kyrgios’ words, tossed out over poker and Playstation in Melbourne when they were all a little too on edge. ‘Sorry, I did not mean-‘

Novak lets him go with a sharp little shove, mouth twisting into a grimace. ‘You did. Own your attitude Sascha, it is more appealing than the apology. And _yes_ , since you so insistent on knowing. When Andy push it, I told him that we were not serious. Only the sex, messing around where we might get caught, why we had to stop.’

That entire six months where Andy was possessed in pursuit of the number one spot, Sasha thinks. Suddenly Novak’s last terrible couple of years on tour slot into place, Andy pushing himself to be better, to beat Novak, until he ran his entire body into the ground suddenly all making sense.

Well, Novak already has enough blackmail on him to last the rest of their careers. May as well thoroughly hang himself out to dry if it saves him from getting punched, or not being able to look Novak in the eye for the rest of his career. It might make tennis matches awkward, is all; it’s not that he feels sorry for Novak or anything.

He feels sorry for himself, but he’s used to that by now.

‘Speaking as the one on the other side,’ he says, careful not to give too much away, ‘I can say that it sucks. ‘But,’ he adds when Novak flinches, letting his voice go raw and honest because he’s never had the chance to say it before, and Novak won’t tell, ‘if Dominic ever said we could make it something we take seriously...’

For an instant Novak’s facade drops, his mouth shaping the memory of devastation. His fist in Sascha’s shirt goes loose, shaking just enough for Sascha to feel the beat of it against his ribs.

‘Maybe you tell Dominic that,’ he says, so quiet it’s almost a breath. ‘Me, is too late.’ He looks at his palm flattening out on Sascha’s chest like a gesture of ownership, the heat of it and the pulse of Sascha’s heartbeat trapped between them. When he looks up, his eyes are dark with something other than anger.

‘So,’ he says, soft, ‘you and Dominic for years, huh?’

Under the weight of his gaze, something hot coils in Sascha’s stomach. ‘Yeah.’

Whatever decision is running behind Novak’s hesitation, he makes it. Stepping back, he leaves just enough time for Sasha to take a breath to quash his hurt at the anticipated rejection before saying,

‘There is bar I like, here in Paris. I need to do press, warm down, but I text you the address. You still want to drink, meet me there in three hours.’

 

*

 

The bar Sascha’s cab takes him to – after three hours of panicking over what he’s doing – is in the 12th arrondissement, on a street tucked snugly up against the Seine. The lights of a Paris slouching gracefully towards true night reflect from the water and the discreet glass frontage of the bar, the tinted windows and politely intimidating bouncer on the door all but shouting the place’s exclusivity.

To Sascha’s amazement, he’s waved immediately through the heavy brass doors. He knows he’s still not the kind of famous that opens up all the best places – getting there but he’s hardly a Federer yet – but maybe the guy’s a tennis fan. Maybe Sascha doesn’t look like he feels, all of about twelve in his best jeans and his only good clean t-shirt as he makes dubious life choices, barely responsible enough to be wandering around Paris by himself and certainly not for the bouncer to smile at him so deferentially.

When he slinks into the artful gloom and loud music inside, he’s surprised – it sounds more like a club than he’d anticipated, heavy bass and lights like thrown glitter on the dance floor just visible through a stylized gothic archway to his left, bar already filling up with people to his right. But potentially that could be a good thing. He’s taken enough painkillers that the stabbing pain in his thigh’s settled to a dull grumble and if he gets Novak beneath his hands on the dance floor, maybe he’ll work out what the hell he’s doing.

He’s thought about fucking Novak before. Of course he has; all of them go a little crazy cooped up in the same locker rooms with each other all year. With getting drunk mostly out of the question during tournaments, the next best way to blow off steam is to talk a lot of shit over slightly-too-competitive games of table tennis and Playstation: who’s best in bed, who sleeps around, who’s the best prospect to hit on when you’re tired and lonely and flunking out in the quarters.

Novak and Andy have been long-standing gossip fodder for years so Sascha’s always known they were both potential options for him, in the right circumstances or with the right offer.

And Novak – with Novak, there’s always the promise right there beneath the media-polished smile that suggests, given the opportunity, he’d pin you up against the lockers and use his mouth to make you scream just to prove that he could. Dominic’s the one Sascha thinks about every day, but Novak’s crept into more than a few daydreams.

So it’d be _wrong_ to say that Sascha isn’t up for some fun tonight... He only hesitating because he isn’t sure how much of an unknown quantity Novak is when he’s upset; the gossip’s vast and argumentative on that point. Sascha would actually like to be able to sit down on the drive home tomorrow.

Not that he isn’t getting ahead of himself, not when Novak asked him to a bar and not his hotel room after all. Sascha looks around and amends: Novak asked him to a _fancy_ bar.

It’s large without feeling cavernous, arranged into discreet sections and with hidden corners which at least one couple already seem to be making use of; Sascha looks hastily away, pretending that he’s not blushing. On the right, away from the loud dancefloor, its all artfully mirrored nooks and black leather booths, half-full with the dancers spilling out from the next room and a handful of groups, mostly skewing to the older side of their twenties from the looks of them. Everything is polished and discreetly expensive, ostentatious in a way designed to exclude anyone who doesn’t already have an invitation to get through the doors.

Sascha hesitates, feeling terribly out of place and wondering if he should go. Write this off as a terrible decision he’d almost made and go home to bed.

He’d believe more that leaving was even an option if his traitor feet weren’t already carrying him toward the polished sweep of the bar. For one night, screw tennis. He’s owed a little fun.

And Novak’s there, perched on a bar stool in the pocket of quiet created by clever acoustics and the curve of the walls. He’s in jeans too, his black shirt smarter than Sascha’s, fuck, and not wearing his glasses which makes Sascha glad he left his own contacts in an attempt not to look younger than he is. Novak’s staring at the bar, the wood polished to such a high shine it’s like glass beneath his drink – small, amber, and Sascha tries not to wince because it looks like whiskey – but he glances up when Sascha slides into the seat next to him, with a smile and,

‘Excuse me, is this seat taken?’

‘Funny,’ Novak remarks. His dry tone loses the sting when his mouth does actually quirk upward. ‘We should never introduce you to Roddick or we will have no time for tennis with all the comedy. You get away okay?’

 _Did you make enough excuses to your team that they don’t think you’re dead in the Seine or getting fucked in an alleyway_ he means, and Sascha shrugs.

‘Said I was meeting some guys from the last sponsor thing to hang out. Think they were just happy I wasn’t going to sulk in my room all night. You?’

Novak’s half-smile falters like he can’t hold it steady but he distracts from it with a wave of his hand. ‘Pfft, it was fine. Always I get to hear opinions you know but I have fired them all once, I can do it again. Here,’ and he catches the barman’s eye, communicating something with a nod, ‘I buy you an old man drink.’

Sascha’s about to protest – he doesn’t drink much but he doesn’t need experience to know that starting on the hard stuff is asking for trouble – but the barman is toned and tall, with a tumble of dark hair and good-looking in an effortless sort of way, the flash of his smile showing off a lush mouth; Sascha definitely doesn’t want to come off as a petulant child in front of that.

Instead he watches Novak lean across the bar, the way his body curves invitingly. He slips into low, coaxing French as if it’s his first language, his head tilted toward the beautiful bartender who leans toward him over the bar to hear, until their mouths are an inch apart.

Sascha’s own mouth has gone uncomfortably dry, his favourite jeans suddenly uncomfortably tight. Jesus, Novak flirting is _hot_.

‘Très bien, merci Nicholas,’ Novak’s murmuring, lacing it with the sweetness of an offer and the barman – Nicholas – trades him a grin before turning back to the racks of bottles behind the bar. Sascha doesn’t look, doesn’t care what Novak just ordered for him because _fuck_ , his entire body is abruptly one hundred percent on board with letting Novak take whatever he wants tonight and his common sense can shut right up. At least until he has to sit down tomorrow.

‘How do you do that?’ he blurts when Novak turns back to him. Their knees press together against the bar and Sascha has to brace himself at the shiver of heat that races down his spine. ‘You just- you cannot have been here ten minutes and he looks like he’d-’ He drops his voice, because they are in a public bar and the bartender is right _there_ , ‘go on his knees for you right now.’

Amusement ripples over Novak’s expression, as if there’s a laugh trying to break out but he’s too polite to let it.

‘Sascha,’ he says, ‘have you looked in the mirror lately?’ He pats Sascha’s knee, hand hot even through the denim. ‘Anyone in this bar would take you right here and now if you smile at them.’

Before Sascha can filter his thought process through his better judgment, he says, ‘You’re in this bar.’

Novak’s eyebrows twitch up, barely. ‘Yes, but you smile at me often. I am immune.’

Disappointment sinks in Sascha’s stomach when Novak takes back his hand; he can’t keep it off his face and Novak sighs.

‘Do not give me that look like I have kicked your dog, Alexander,’ he says over the rim of his drink, his eyes wandering back to the bartender. Sascha’s drink is being poured from a clear bottle, something the colour of an autumn sunrise and probably, knowing Novak, worth as much as a first round match win at a Slam. Sascha’s distracted from his imminent alcoholic downfall though when Novak adds, almost thoughtful, ‘I haven’t decided if I should be trusted with you yet.’

‘I wish everyone would stop treating me like I need looking after, like a child,’ Sascha mutters and knows he’s undermining his point, can’t help himself, when he adds, ‘And don’t call me Alexander.’

Like dangling a ribbon to a cat, Novak’s regard is abruptly laser-focused on him.

‘ _Why_?’ he murmurs and oh fuck, it’s the low tone he used on the bartender, slipping like a warm, wet tongue over every one of Sascha’s sweet spots. When his hand slides back onto Sascha’s knee under the bar, drifting with warm pressure up his thigh, Sascha thinks he might actually come in his pants. ‘Does it make you feel like you have to do what I say?’

Sascha’s so hard now that he’s dizzy with it, heat racing out in waves with the flex of Novak’s fingers, but he’s spent his entire life learning how not to lose and flirting isn’t so different to tennis, with the give and the take.

Of course, ideally this time they both get to win at the end.

Inclining forward, bracing himself against Novak’s hand so he doesn’t tip off the bar stool entirely and letting his smile curl a little mischievous, Sascha leans in close past Novak’s sudden flush to whisper in his ear,

‘No. It’s because only my mother calls me Alexander.’

Novak bursts out laughing. Sascha has a second to feel pleased with himself before the Serb turns his head, amusement a hot puff of air on Sascha’s cheek – and then he _kisses_ the corner of Sascha’s mouth, right there in the middle of the bar.

‘We definitely do not want you mixing that one up,’ he murmurs, and oh god, his lips are warm, brushing Sascha’s and he’s gone lightheaded, thinks he might be about to fall off the stool anyway.

And then Novak is suddenly arms’ length away again, pushing Sascha upright with a hand on his shoulder and his laconic smile back in place. Only the sweep of blush over his cheeks betrays him, and the faint echo of a smile when Sascha keeps staring.

‘Drink your drink, Sascha,’ he says. Sascha jolts back to himself, aware he’s been gaping like a junior at a Federer match for almost a minute. ‘Unless you have changed your mind about this evening?

Sascha swallows. ‘N-no.’ He meets Novak’s gaze, calm and laced with something dark, something like want – for _him_ – and the skip of his heartbeat steadies. ‘Of course not.’

Novak smiles, managing to condense the promise of a regretful evening and lots of the fun kind of screaming down to the slightest upcurve of his mouth. ‘Good. Drink your drink.’

There’s a glass on the bar besides Novak’s now, square-cut and heavy in a way that suggests crystal rather than glass when Sascha picks it up. The drink is warm amber and the smell reminds him a little of antiseptic but Novak’s gaze is still resting on him, with that promise of where this is going, and he’s not going to prove he can’t act like an adult now. Without pausing to think, he tips back a full mouthful.

It goes down like honey on fire. Sascha manages not to spit it out but it catches in his throat and he swallows hard, and gasps, and coughs until his chest hurts. Novak leans over to pat him on the back – more for reassurance than to help, apparently.

‘I know, is like being punched with alcohol yes?’ he says when he sits back, not without sympathy, although he manages to sip his own drink without any of the spluttering Sascha’s trying to contain. ‘Andy-’ The trip is barely a hitch in his voice, the flicker of a tremor in the hand holding his drink before he recovers. ‘Andy, he does not drink so much but when he do he like to be proud of Scotland. I never tell him I like the Japanese whiskey better.’

Sascha’s eyes are watering. ‘If this is what an old man drink tastes like, I’d like to sign up for eternal youth please.’ Because he’s pretty sure it’s expensive and that still means something to him even if it doesn’t to Novak any more, he sips the vile drink again. This time it goes down smoother, like a spark rather than a forest fire.

When he licks a splash of it from his lips, Novak’s gaze rests on his mouth a moment longer than would really be polite – if Sascha hadn’t done it on purpose to earn exactly that reaction. Point to him.

After another sip to prove he can handle it, he ventures, ‘Sounds like you and Andy were pretty serious.’ It’s a logical conclusion; adopting someone’s favourite drink is hardly occasional-fucking-in-the-showers levels of casual but something behind Novak’s eyes immediately goes shuttered and distant, falling into the careful blankness Sascha’s seen him use in press conferences.

(Sascha may have spent hours watching hundreds of the older players’ conferences on Youtube to work out how to not fuck up his own. All he’s concluded is that they all fuck up, sometimes).

‘You know how it is,’ Novak says. Over the rim of his glass as he takes a drink he must catch Sascha’s flash of disappointment again, because something thoughtful crosses the blankness, cracking through. When he puts the drink down, he glances around as if making sure no one’s close enough to hear – never mind that he _kissed Sascha on the fucking mouth_ a minute ago – before saying, quietly unflinching,

‘How old were you when Dominic first jerk you off?’

Whoa, okay; it probably would’ve been worse for someone to hear that than to catch some casual flirting. Under the weight of Novak’s regard – not untouchably alien like Roger’s, or grimly intense like Rafa’s, but understandable somehow – Sascha swallows his knee-jerk urge to lie.

‘Seventeen. I thought he wasn’t interested,’ he adds, stumbling over the words a little. He’s never told anyone this before. ‘So I didn’t say anything for like a year. Then he made it pretty clear he was on board by pushing me into the toilets at the Wimbledon players’ party and unzipping my pants.’

‘Mmm.’ Novak doesn’t frown, or smile, or make a dismissive remark about stupid teenage decisions. Instead he says,

‘When I was fourteen, Andy beat me in a junior event in Spain. I walk off court to wait for him in the showers and gave him his first ever blowjob.’

That’s probably more information than Sascha ever needed to know about Andy Murray, who always remembers to ask after Lovik and was — until the last year, when he suddenly wasn’t — the quiet centre of the whirlwind that is every locker room on tour, making dry jokes and there to pick up the pieces whenever anyone’s rough loss turned into a rougher fight.

Picturing him up against the shower wall with Novak on his knees – Sascha feels like the world’s realigned subtly around him. He’s always known the two of them were fucking, since almost before he knew what fucking _was,_ but — _fourteen_. Taking a shaky breath, he looks at Novak who’s staring into a random patch of air between the racks of bottles behind the bar — probably also picturing Andy up against the shower wall, all the times they’d done it, and something shivers over Sascha head to toe, turned on but also in awe, altogether. Fourteen means a relationship that’s lasted almost as long as Sascha’s been alive.

‘What _happened_?’ he asks without meaning to, probably should’ve filtered that surprised tone but — Novak’s started the oversharing and Sascha wants to know, now. A relationship that lasted (almost) since they were that young; it can’t have ended because of nothing in particular, because of Novak’s _it was not serious, just sex._ When Novak frowns at him, Sascha meets it without flinching.

‘I mean,’ he says, tentative, ‘you and Andy — it kept going right? It is only last few years you have been...’ He waves his hand, uncertain of the English for _circling each other like unhappy cats while everyone gets out of the way until the fight explodes._

‘Broken up?’ Novak supplies, which wasn’t really what Sascha was trying to say. People who’d broken up didn’t usually stare at each other with intense hunger when they thought no one was looking, didn’t take the opportunity to mention each other in press only to feel the shape of the other’s name on their tongue. Didn’t ignore each other in the locker room but immediately leap on any rumours that the other was injured, or sick, demanding _who told you, how bad is it, did they call the doctor_ and snapping _no reason_ if pressed on why they’re so concerned.

Actually, looking back at the last five months, Sascha can confirm that’s exactly what being broken up is like.

‘You know,’ Novak says and it’s tired, the fine map of lines around his eyes looking deeper suddenly. ‘I cannot really say. We fight after that Roland Garros, you know when I win everything-’

Sascha raises an eyebrow. ‘If you phrase it like that, I can see why.’

‘-because Jelena walk in on us fucking in my hotel room,’ Novak finishes and Sascha has to put down his drink before it drops from his suddenly-numb fingers.

‘Shit,’ he offers lamely after a long moment where words desert him in any language. Jelena isn’t Mirka Federer levels of terrifying (no one is; Sascha’s convinced that there are trained military assassins less terrifying than Mirka) but the secret ranking system that they all pretend doesn’t exist if any of the WTA players ask, places Jelena firmly in the ‘will end you without hesitation if you cross her; not worth it’ column.

Sascha hesitates because Novak’s expression’s gone strained at the edges of his careful blankness, drawing further away and he doesn’t want to make it worse. But the idea of tonight was to make them _less_ miserable and Novak brought it up, so- ‘Did she castrate you or Andy first?’

The distance behind Novak’s expression snaps shut, with a blink at Sascha that turns into a sudden, brilliant grin.

‘We need to stop letting you hang out with Nick,’ he says, all amused again, ‘he teach you terrible thoughts to put in your pretty head. She know what we were already, I do not lie, but Andy-’ There, that’s a flare of genuine bitterness before Novak gets a grip on it, ‘Andy, it make him reevaluate what we were do if it is something we must only keep hidden, packed away like a shameful secret. You know Andy, always think he must do the good thing even if it not easy.’

Sascha frowns, not sure he’s getting it – or maybe not believing it. ‘He- he wanted to come out? But he is-’

‘Married, this I know,’ Novak sighs. He swirls his drink idly in one hand, eyes on the lights reflecting from the tiny waves. ‘Imagine was that would be like? How do we even _begin_ to explain, and then the British press are not kind at the best of times, but Andy...’ With a helpless shrug, Novak tips his head back to drain his glass. Sascha half-expects him to slam it down on the bar but he only exhales, slow, and tips the glass to Nicholas with a nod for another.

When he raises a questioning eyebrow, Sascha realises his own glass is also empty – when did that happen? – and nods to the unspoken question. He’s getting the sense that this isn’t going to be a one-drink conversation.

‘So you told him...’ he starts as soon as Nicholas has retreated to a safe distances after delivering freshly-filled glasses – still with whiskey unfortunately – but Novak’s finger pressed to his lips cuts him off.

‘Ah, you misunderstand,’ he says, eyes catching and reflecting the lights of the ridiculous chandelier over the bar in a gold-leafed glitter. His fingertip is cold from the side of his glass, lingering tennis callus-scratchy on Sascha’s lower lip with deliberate, gentle pressure. ‘This is a fair trade relationship, share and share alike yes?’

So that’s what this is about. Sascha thinks back to the tour gossip about Novak – will say whatever he thinks will distract you during matches, plays the long con, on no one’s side but his own. Mischa’s quiet, serious face a couple of years back after watching Sascha laughing through his practice with Novak in Rome, pulling Sascha aside after to murmur, _careful what you say; he’s only trying to work out your weak spots._

Novak’s shown him more weak spots tonight than he’d bet Roger and Rafa have combined.

Sascha takes a deep breath. ‘Okay, sure. What do you want to know?’

 

 

*

 

 

‘The stupidest place I’ve ever let Dominic fuck me?’ To hide his wince, Sascha takes a sip of his new drink – his third, some fancy brandy this time that tastes like a mix of old oak and furniture polish, but he needs it; he’s not proud of this memory. ‘Probably the showers in Halle. Roger was in the next stall and the showers there, do you know, the walls do not go all the way to the ceiling? The sound uh, carries really well.’

Novak let out a low whistle of amusement, laughing at him across the table. They’d relocated to a booth halfway through the second drink, ostensibly to be closer to the thump of music so anything they said would get muffled from eavesdroppers by the beat of it, but the moment they sat down, Novak’s foot – bare, expensive sneakers kicked carelessly off – found Sascha’s ankle under the table. It’s been tracing idle circles ever since, pressing harder, farther up, every time Sascha has to catch his breath mid-sentence because he’s so hard in his jeans.

Now the foot slides up the inside of Sascha’s calf, warm through the denim and distracting, making him blink. The lights are softer over the booths, pooling diffuse in their drinks rather than refracting harsh sparks but they’re blurring in long, liquid lines in Sascha’s vision all the same.

Maybe he should’ve had water this round but Novak hadn’t hesitated over his own order and Sascha, perhaps not without reason, felt like he’d be letting the new gen of players down if he didn’t keep up.

Besides, one more drink and he thinks he might be brave enough to kick off his own shoes and slide his foot up Novak’s thigh to where it counts.

‘Did Roger say anything?’ Novak asks; Sascha has to concentrate to process it before he shakes his head. Blur, go the lights.

‘No. But I had a practice with him the next day, already planned, and he cannot look me in the eye the entire time. Domi banned sex in the showers after that.’

‘Do you ever jerk off in there to make up for it?’ Novak asks, in the deceptively coaxing tone Sascha’s learning to resent for the immediate way it kicks up his pulse. He’s not quite drunk enough yet to fall for it, though.

‘Not fair,’ he warns. He leans back with what he hopes conveys casual disappointment in Novak’s attempt to cheat and what probably comes across as being too drunk to stay upright. ‘It’s not your turn. I should dock you a point.’

‘You do not have any umpire qualifications but correction noted.’ Novak tips his drink in acknowledgment, eyes resting on Sascha’s mouth as his foot drifts deliberately higher; when Sascha bites his lip, Novak’s grin widens triumphantly. ‘Ask your question then.’

The instruction takes a minute to sink in because Sascha wasn’t biting his lip because he’s turned on (though he is). It was because Novak’s toes have moved above his knee and they’re pressed directly over the sharp core of pain in his hamstring that he’d carried through his match, that he’d almost forgotten about until right now when the pressure set off a dull ache that’s growing stronger with every breath. The painkillers must be wearing off.

‘If you get a time penalty, you forfeit your question Alexander,’ Novak says pointedly – and maybe it’s the faint sharp edge that does it, maybe it’s the name thing again, but Sascha blurts out on the first thing on his mind before he can think better of it:

‘Did you ever tell Andy that you loved him?’

Novak’s smile goes rigid. ‘Ask a different question.’

Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s how many liberties Novak’s been taking all night without asking (maybe it’s that Sascha, now he’s asked it, desperately _needs_ to know), but Sascha straightens up to his full height in his seat and frowns.

‘No, that’s not how this works. I want to know.’

‘You don’t.’

The foot on his thigh presses warningly hard and the edges of Sascha’s vision grey out at the answering flare of pain, gritting his teeth to keep from making a sound. The beat of the music’s vibrating over nerves working overtime, thumping in his chest alongside his heartbeat until it feels like there’s not quite enough room for air in his lungs – but it’s no worse than his grinding, agonising three sets on court earlier with Dominic watching him crumble from across the net.

At the end of the match he’d leaned into the hug with a whispered, ‘ _Congratulations, I’m sorry I ruined it,_ ’ and Dominic had patted his back, like they were barely friends, offered a quiet, _‘Make sure you’re okay yeah?_ ’ before he’d turned away to acknowledge the applause of the crowd, already forgetting the last three matches where it’d been Sascha’s name they were cheering.

If the answer to this one question is the only thing he can come out of today winning, then he’s damn sure not going to let it go. Shifting a little on the smooth leather of the booth seat so that Novak isn’t leaning directly on his thigh, the reminder that he’s a failure, Sascha takes a deliberately slow sip of his drink to remind Novak how much he’s put up with so far.

‘I’m waiting, Novak,’ he says over his glass, and the wariness in Novak’s face goes hard, all of him snapping tense and shadows on his face that aren’t entirely from the dim lighting. He leans across the table with a jerk.

‘What?’ he demands in a harsh whisper, sharp as shattered glass. ‘You want to play this not for fun? Fine, so you want me to tell you how I tell Andy I love him so many times that I lose count? That I tell Andy it more than anyone I have ever told, that I tell him on his birthday when we are eighteen, when I beat him in Slams, when we are _fucking_?’

There’s a wild, bitter edge in Novak’s tone now and Sascha wants to tell him to stop, that he didn’t realise the question was a landmine ready to go off and he’d blundered across it by accident. But he can’t because when Novak leaned forward, his foot slipped an inch back to exactly where Sascha’s thigh hurts, pressed down hard and Sascha thinks he might be about to pass out.

‘Novak-’ he manages, voice thin, but Novak’s running right on over him now.

‘No, you want to hear. You want to hear that I tell Andy I love him so much that at the end, when we fight over if to take it seriously, he say every time I tell him that was a lie and I am not allowed to say it ever again? When he is number one at last and we meet at the net, I tell him I am happy for him and he say _Novak, you were only ever happy for yourself_.’

Sitting back with an accidental push to Sascha’s thigh that makes the world tilt sideways, Novak glares at him, pale and with shoulders hunched; he looks small and unhappy, all his teasing smiles forgotten. ‘Is that what you want? To know I say it until it ruin everything?’

‘No I-’ Sascha’s head is swimming with dizziness; even though Novak’s dropped his foot back to the floor, Sascha’s heart is already hammering oddly in his chest and he thinks if he doesn’t move, he might throw up. ‘Sorry, I- that is not what I meant, it wasn’t fair to ask. Sorry. I- I need to go to the bathroom.’

Uncertainly cracks through Novak’s misery. ‘...You okay?’

‘Yes, I- I’m fine.’ Sascha swallows against the nausea and slides to the edge of the booth in a creak of leather. He doesn’t know how he’s going to walk to the bathroom but he’d rather cut his own leg off than tell Novak what he’d just done when he’s already flayed himself open at Sascha’s stupid request.

‘I’ll be fine,’ he says to Novak’s outright concern now, the Serb frowning with a hand half-stretched across the table ready to steady him, ‘I won’t be a minute.’

He forces himself to put both feet on the ground and braces himself on the table as he stands up – hopefully not too obviously wobbly as he takes a painful step, or maybe just wobbly enough to blame on being three terrible drinks in. He thinks Novak says something else behind him but it’s swallowed in the ringing in his ears as he forces himself to walk, planting each foot firmly on the floor and heading in a random direction across the bar because he’s just realised he has no idea where the restrooms are.

He could wander into the crowd for a bit, find somewhere to sit down, but the pounding music isn’t helping and he’s pretty sure he’ll fall on his face without something to hang onto in the next minute. Novak’s amused smile flashes across his memory, the curl of affection in his voice when he said, ‘ _anyone in this bar would take you right here if you smile at them_ ’ and Sascha decides, if there’s any truth in that at all, no one will mind if he smiles at them and only asks for directions. No matter that he doesn’t speak a lick of French.

As he thinks it a group passes him, all giggling and bare skin and looking like they’re not much older than him, although they’re all the improbable kind of beautiful that Paris seems to attract. Sascha catches the arm of the nearest guy.

‘Restroom?’ he says hopefully when the stranger stops to smile at him; because Sascha’s out of luck they’re almost of a matched height, the guy much less scrawny than Sascha and so gorgeously hot that Sascha would hardly mind if he _did_ drop to his knees and suck him off right here. Getting kicked out – or arrested – would be worth it.

Doesn’t seem likely though when the hot guy only frowns at him in confusion, wrinkling his perfect nose apologetically. ‘Ah shit,’ Sascha says with feeling. ‘Um. Bathroom, bathroom – bains? Bains sil vous plait?’

The guy’s confusion clears like the sun coming out from the clouds. When he smiles, his teeth are very white against his tan.

‘Oui,’ he says and catches the hand Sascha had on his arm. The look he gives him up and down however is frankly admiring, _anticipatory_ and oh fuck, Sascha’s got a sinking feeling that he’s been misunderstood. ‘Oui, allez.’ He tugs at Sascha’s hand with a grin and okay, this is _bad_ but also he really needs to know where the restrooms are so he can hide from Novak for a few minutes. When the guy’s shown him the way, Sascha can make it politely clear that he doesn’t want company.

It’s a sound strategy that goes immediately sideways when Sascha nods, smiles as he lets the guy pull him, limping, along after the group he’d been with, through the Gothic archway – and before Sascha can flinch, they’re on the dance floor and the guy is turning, reeling him in with a broad smile.

 _Bains_ , Sascha realises with a looming sense of dismay as the guy’s arms go around his waist, pulling him close enough to trap the beat of the music between their hips. Over the thumping noise and Sascha’s terrible French pronunciation, the guy must’ve only caught the sibilant and thought that he said _danse._

Maybe Novak’s been right to be wary of escalating things all night. Sascha clearly isn’t responsible enough to look after himself for five minutes unsupervised in a bar.

It’s hotter on the dance floor than in the rest of the bar, the strobe lights and beat of the music pressing the air close around them, other dancers bumping up against them and it’d be claustrophobic even without the guy right there, the weight of his hands at Sascha’s waist. The crush of the other dancers isn’t excuse enough to grind their hips together like he is, the burn of something hotter between them with every shimmy and his smile inviting in the half-dark half-neon, fingers tucking in between Sascha’s shirt and bare skin. Sascha’s having trouble focusing between the pain in his thigh and the lights but he catches the guy’s expression when it crinkles into concern, noticing the tension holding Sascha rigid in his arms, beautiful mouth shaping a question that’s swallowed up in the music.

It’s fast dawning on Sascha that he’s properly fucked up. There’s nothing casual about the way he’s letting the guy grind up against him, both of them pretty close to hard already and incriminating enough in itself, but making a scene would be worse, attract the attention of half the dance floor. He has no idea who this guy is; if he’s a _journalist_.

Sascha’s going to have to give him one dance at least before he smiles apologetically and slinks off, laugh it off as a mistake if anyone ever asks. ‘ _I just asked for the restroom and then..._ ’

The alternative is potentially coming out to an entire bar in Paris and Mischa never letting him leave a hotel without supervision ever again.

At least making the decision to dance gives him an excuse to lean on the guy before he falls over. Sliding his arms around the stranger’s waist, Sascha tries to sway with him without putting any weight on his left leg and remember to smile and remember not to let the guy get a hand down the front of Sascha’s jeans, _jesus._

Sascha grabs his wrist just in time before the fingers wriggle under his waistband, giving the guy an incredulous look. The smile he gets in return is unrepentant, a little teasing and Sascha has the startled realisation:

He could actually _do this_ . Go home with a random beautiful Frenchman for a one night stand in Paris. The guy is _hot_ and clearly doesn’t care about letting Sascha know he’s interested, and Sascha could wake up in a bed somewhere tomorrow, aching and sated and kissing the not-a-stranger-anymore in the rumpled sheets, the long lines of them tangled together in the lazy morning. He’s hardly ever had a morning with Dominic; they’ve both been too worried about being caught.

It really would be as easy as smiling at someone in a bar and letting them fuck him.

But that reminds him; he didn’t originally come out tonight for a random ill-advised hookup with a stranger. He thinks of Novak’s wary smile and the way it only reaches his eyes when Sascha makes him laugh, his low coaxing French. The way he’s been brutally honest with Sascha since they crashed into each other after both losing at the one thing that really matters, the way he’d told Sascha the truth even when he didn’t want to, didn’t even try to lie.

Sascha lets his hands fall from the guy’s waist, stepping back.

‘Sorry,’ he starts apologetically in answer to the guy’s frown, starting to fumble for enough half-assed French to apologise properly – when one of the other dancers swings too fast and collides hard with Sascha’s left side.

His world whites out for a second. The dancer caught him just in the wrong spot with a knee, the thump of pain like someone took a knife to his leg snatching all his air away and the ringing in his ears drowning out the music for a minute. When he blinks back to himself he’s distantly surprised to find himself still upright, the guy he’d been dancing with bracing him up with both hands on Sascha’s shoulders and concern all over his beautiful face.

Sascha wants to apologise, tell him it’s fine, but doesn’t think he’d be capable of making any words heard over the music even if he did know any the guy would understand. Then again, fainting will make his point pretty clear.

When arms go around him from behind, he goes tense for a second – then there’s a warm breath on his cheek, the familiar low curl of exasperation in the whisper against his ear and every muscle in Sascha’s body goes loose in relief.

‘I leave you alone for five minutes,’ Novak murmurs. His arms are braced around Sascha’s waist and Sascha sags back against him, trusting the slender strength of the Serb to hold him up despite the height difference.

Half-dizzy still, he sees the stranger take them both in, glance from Novak – probably glaring at him – to Sascha’s face with the frown of a question. Checking Sascha’s alright, not being dragged off by an unwanted boyfriend.

Sascha takes a second to mourn lost opportunities because he suspects that one night stand would’ve been fun. Maybe he should’ve got the guy’s number for when, inevitably, Novak sends him home alone like a misbehaving child.

Too late now. Giving the guy a slightly sheepish smile, Sascha offers a shrug that asks, _what can you do with boyfriends, eh?_ It must be believable enough because the guy steps back, palms raised and, with a last wistful once-over of Sascha, he blows a kiss and disappears into the press of dancers.

Sascha feels the smile slide off his face. Turning his head so only Novak can hear him over the beat of the music, he says with a plaintive edge, ‘I would really like to sit down now.’

‘I also would like this because I cannot carry you if you fall over, unmanageable giant that you are,’ Novak agrees. Keeping his arm around Sascha’s waist and with the protective curl of his shoulders as a wall against the other dancers, he maneuvers them off the dance floor and back into the main bar, the level of the music dropping from deafening to merely loud.

Sascha expects to be steered back toward their booth, no doubt to be yelled at for wandering off with strangers like an idiot, but instead Novak pushes them a sharp left into a corner and a discreet door tucked into a niche. Nicholas the hot bartender is waiting – obviously for them – twirling a key around his fingers but concern writes a furrow across his perfect forehead when he sees Novak supporting Sascha.

‘Qu'est-il arrivé?’ he asks. When he palms the key from his hand to Novak’s, Sascha almost misses it because he’s distracted by the warm, dismissive tone of Novak’s reply in French, whatever he says making Nicholas laugh.

‘Go easy on him, he is too pretty to punish,’ he says to Novak in English – heavily accented but _English_ , the bastard, and Sascha counters the wink he gives them with a suspicious look. He just has time to catch Nicholas’ answering grin before Novak pulls him through the door into a dim corridor.

It’s empty, painted dark grey and too clean to be the service exit Sascha half-expected. Before helping Sascha limp down it, Novak uses the key Nicholas slipped him to lock the door behind them.

‘Novak?’ Sascha asks, uncertain as Novak helps him limp the few steps and out into another room, shadowed and echoingly quiet in comparison to the bar. Novak’s not looking at him, not saying a word as he helps Sascha over to a nearby table surrounded by leather couches, one of a few dotted around a tiled floor so polished that it looks like still, deep water — it looks like the VIP rooms at a dozen bars Sascha’s been to sponsor events in, only he’s never seen one empty, without trays of champagne and swarming execs all trying to shake his hand and tell him about the latest product innovation they want to sell. As if he might care about self-lacing shoes or sports fabric made from recycled plastic if it’s not going to help him win tennis matches.

The music from next door is only a muffled pulse through the walls, the only light from hidden spotlights at the edges of the room. Sascha has no idea if Novak’s rescuing him from fainting with an audience or finding them some privacy so he can yell at Sascha without worrying about being overheard.

‘Novak,’ he repeats, turning to lean against the table edge when Novak would’ve pushed him onto the couch, catching the Serb’s arm when it looks like he might step back. ‘You’re kind of freaking me out.’

‘Is that so?’

Novak’s tone is so cold it practically has frost on it and ah, it’ll be the yelling then. Moving with tight-wound tension, he steps in so close that Sascha sits – somewhat abruptly – down on the table, no time to wince at the twinge from his thigh because Novak’s bracing an arm on either side of him, leaning in to glare up close and personal.

‘That is funny,’ he says, barely an inch from Sascha’s face and wow, he’s actually a little terrifying when he’s furious, ‘funny you see because _freak out_ is what I do when I see you limp – limp! – away only to be kidnapped by a stranger!’

He raises his eyebrows; they’re on eye-level with Sascha sitting on the tabletop, feet dangling like a child getting a telling off but the position also puts Novak right between his knees, so close and incandescent with outrage that it’s impossible to think of anything else. It feels like the heat of him, the awareness, is prickling all over Sascha’s skin. His cock abruptly reminds him that it’s been teased relentlessly all night without any joy and it might be time to pay it some attention.

Wait, Novak’s saying something. Dragging his gaze away from Novak’s mouth – right _there_ and tempting, wouldn’t even have to move far to claim it – Sascha blinks.

‘Sorry, what was that?’

The sound Novak makes is pure frustration. ‘ _This_!’ He leans back a little, drops his hand to Sascha’s left thigh and squeezes barely hard enough to make Sascha grimace. ‘I am thinking you did not lose today only because you were tired, no?’ His mouth, still tempting and very close, pulls into a set, unhappy line. ‘Were you hoping I would not notice?’

‘Kind of, yeah,’ Sascha admits after a beat. Novak’s hand on his thigh is a pleasant warmth, soothing down the ache even more than finally getting to sit down. ‘It’s only a pull that was acting up, don’t worry about it.’

Novak gives him a narrow-eyed look, tone sardonic now. ‘Oh, do not worry? So if I do this-’ and he pokes the inside of Sascha’s thigh with a straight finger; dizzy grey sparkles crackle in Sascha’s vision, a gasp caught between his clenched teeth – ‘it should not look so much like you are about to faint? Is just a flesh wound?’

It’s Sascha’s turn to frown at him. ‘No, I think it’s my hamstring.’

‘No that isn’t-’ Novak huffs a sigh. ‘Nevermind, Andy and his many stupid references. It look bad though hm?’

His hand slides over Sascha’s thigh and objectively Sascha knows he’s checking for the ridges of a bandage or tape through his jeans, but the thrill of heat that ripples through his groin has him gripping the table edge to stay upright. Novak’s looking down, his hair a brush of softness on Sascha’s mouth as he explores the curve of Sascha’s thigh under his jeans, every shift of fingertips winding Sascha’s nerves tighter with proximity and promise and ah _fuck_ waiting on Novak to decide if he wants this.

Getting a hand up fast, Sascha pushes up Novak’s chin, bite of stubble on his fingertips and Novak’s wide-eyed hesitation glimpsed for an instant, before Sascha leans in to kiss his warm, startled mouth.

There’s a second where he thinks he’s about to get pushed back. Novak likes to act in the locker room as if he knows everything and is unsurprisable but the soft part of his lips under Sascha’s is definitely halfway to an interruption, or a demand to know what Sascha thinks he’s doing. Sascha has no intention of letting this go now he’s got it – he knows what he wants; it’s his leg that’s not working, not his brain which is three-drinks-fuzzy but perfectly clear on _this_.

Novak tastes of the whiskey, sweeter in his mouth than from the glass and Sascha thinks, _I could learn to like it this way_. Sliding his hand down the line of Novak’s neck, over warm skin and the delicate flutter of his racing pulse, he fists a handful of shirt and pulls until Novak stumbles right in close, chests together and Novak’s hips bracketed tight by Sascha’s thighs.

‘What’s the matter old man?’ he murmurs into the startled sound Novak makes against his mouth, ‘don’t know what to do with me now you’ve got me?’

A beat – and then Novak’s hands settle at his hips, pushing up Sascha’s shirt to let his nails run sharp against the edge of Sascha’s ribs. When Sascha gasps, can’t stop it turning to a helpless little sound of being utterly turned on, Novak’s grin curves into the kiss – he’s definitely on board with it, _finally_.

‘Best part of being old,’ he says, ‘is you learn all the tricks.’

‘I am waiting to be impres- ah!’ Sascha loses his flippancy to a gasp when Novak pushes him backwards hard. Before his back even hits the table Novak’s kneeling over him, a hot, heavy weight over Sascha’s hips and all wicked smile as he leans down, sharp burst of heat like tiny fireworks when he nips Sascha’s lower lip.

‘Oh-okay,’ Sascha says, breathless with the pressure on his cock and the uncomfortable friction of his jeans, with the swift competence with which Novak took control which means that he’s been holding back, he could’ve done that _any time all night_ , ‘that was a little bit cool.’

‘Take notes later, fuck now,’ Novak murmurs. His hands are already busy dragging up Sascha’s shirt, mapping the lines of his abs that Sascha’s pretty proud of considering the grinding hours in the gym it took to earn them. Novak skims each one with his nails and teeth when he ducks his head, tugging playfully at Sascha’s necklaces with his teeth, circling a nipple tauntingly with the hot, wet tip of his tongue. Sascha whimpers as quietly as he can, and writhes, and tries not to come from the friction of his jeans alone. The sharp pain from his leg’s faded in the waves of heat over every inch of skin, drowning in the rush of endorphins and all he can focus on is Novak, so close and touchable as he sucks hickeys up Sascha’s chest. He’s like a bonfire beneath the hand Sascha fumbles up to the ridge of his hip where his jeans are sliding down and his shirt rucking up, Sascha pushing aside the layers to find bare, hot skin trembling against his fingertips every time Novak gasps for air.

‘There is so much of you,’ Novak says against the hard line of his collarbone, teeth a lightning-burst of pain when he bites down to make Sascha whine. ‘You used to be tiny, what the fuck do they feed you in Germany?’

 _Everything they’re not feeding you_ , Sascha thinks with his fingertips on the hard relief lines of Novak’s ribs, but no one on tour’s stupid enough to comment Novak’s weight these days, not since Andy stopped. Instead he tickles the dip of Novak’s sides, grins in triumph at the helpless flinch, the protest muffled by laughter.

I’m just made this way,’he says, and pauses deliberately. ‘All over.’

Novak actually pulls back far enough to give him a look of disbelief, coloured soft with affection he can’t quite mask. ‘You are not as smooth as you think you are, Alexander.’

‘Don’t call me-’ Sascha’s protest vanishes into a mouthful of cotton when Novak yanks his shirt over his head without waiting for him to finish.

‘Better,’ Novak says decidedly, surveying Sascha’s bare chest with a possessive air. ‘Do you not ever practice with your shirt off? Your tan lines are as bad as-’

He cuts himself off but they both know what who’s name he was going to say, written in the brief wistfulness that tugs at his smile. Sascha doesn’t want anyone sitting on top of him to look that miserable, ever, and he’s reaching up on an impulse, dragging Novak down to a kiss that’s all teeth and the burning lack of air before he finally lets go.

‘Maybe I practice shirtless just for you, when you are around to see yeah?’ he whispers into the press of the kiss and Novak groans.

‘Do you try to have me killed? Because if I leap at you on practice courts, your brother will be first in line to take me out. It will be a long line,’ he adds thoughtfully, barely pausing in his line of kisses down Sascha’s throat; the wet slide of heat when his tongue finds the sensitive spot below Sascha’s ear is almost distracting enough for him to let that go.

But he’s getting a handle on Novak – okay, maybe not but he’s at least closer than he was three hours ago – and he pokes Novak’s side again to get his attention.

‘It would be a very short line and they will have to go through me first,’he says seriously, digging his fingers into Novak’s sides when he would’ve glanced away. ‘People like you, Novak. Mischa likes you.’ That’s not _entirely_ true, but Sascha would be having words with his brother if he tried to interfere with where Sascha wanted to stick his dick. ‘I can make my own decisions and I say jump me on the practice court any time you want.’

The here-and-gone again flash of Novak’s glance argues with that without actually bothering with words, something vulnerable drifting over his expression like clouds across the sun. Sascha wants to ask why he’s so sure he wouldn’t be good enough for this, or them, in the eyes of the tour – sure, Sascha’s doing well in the rankings but he’s barely won anything to make the history books; he’s still a nobody and Novak’s, well – _Novak_.

Sascha wants to push it, insist that Novak realises he’s the one doing _Sascha_ a favour here, but they’re not playing twenty questions anymore and he loses the moment when Novak grinds his hips down.

‘Less talking,’ Novak says in a tone that leaves no room for argument. Leaning forward, he stuffs Sascha’s balled-up shirt under his head to cushion it from the table and Sascha’s so distracted by the gesture – just let Mischa try to argue that Novak isn’t worth it because Sascha knows better now, knows he’s _sweet_ – that he almost misses Novak unbuttoning his jeans.

‘ _Novak_ ,’ he hisses. Not that he isn’t interested but he thought they might just grind it out against each other here, head back to the hotel for actual nudity because- ‘We’re in a _bar_.’

The flash of Novak’s amusement is bright through the shadows, dim lights catching on the gleam of teeth in his grin. ‘VIP room,’ he says, already pushing Sascha’s hand out the way at his zipper, busy with the fabric and the hard swell of Sascha’s cock underneath, ‘no cameras, both doors lock, Nicholas knows we are not to be disturbed.’ Sliding his hand inside Sascha’s jeans, he palms his cock through his underwear until Sascha cries out, can’t help himself, bucking up as his entire body goes tight with pleasure. ‘Old man tricks, eh?’

When Sascha finds his voice and words in a language they actually share, it comes out thin and scratchy with desperation. ‘In that case old man, might want to get a move on before I come in my pants.’

Novak’s hands rolls carelessly over his cock, tennis calluses rough through cotton that’s already damp with sweat and precome. ‘You’re young,’ he says, ‘pretty sure you can get it up again.’

There’s a whine building in Sascha’s throat, a desperate begging sound that he tries to swallow and fails. Novak might have some weird hang ups about not being good enough for Sascha but he’s clearly good at _this_ , and he likes a challenge; maybe Sascha won’t be able to sit down for the trip home tomorrow anyway. And if Novak’s hands keep doing _that_ , he really doesn’t care.

Though if they’re going to- ‘Wait!’ he says as Novak’s yanking his jeans down. Novak’s hands freeze instantly, smile vanishing into the careful blank look again and Sascha curses inwardly. ‘No, I don’t mean- is not a- _scheisse_ ,’ he mutters as gives up on English and fumbles for what he needs in his jeans pocket instead. When he drops it on his stomach with a _ta-da_ flick of his hand, he takes a second to enjoy the shock on Novak’s face.

‘Young guy tricks not looking so bad now yeah?’

Novak blinks and then grins at him, all studied innocence as he slides a hand down the tanned dip of his own stomach where his shirt’s come unbuttoned, making a show of it as he reaches into his own pocket and produces two foil squares.

‘I did not want to presume,’ he says, dropping the condom and lube packets onto Sascha’s stomach, next to the condom Sascha had retrieved from his washbag and crammed into his jeans before he rushed out of his hotel room earlier. He’d felt a bit foolish – why would Novak want to sleep with _him_ ; he hadn’t even won a Slam yet – but he’d reminded himself that Novak had agreed to go to a bar with him, hadn’t laughed outright in his face when he’d asked.

And all along, Novak had _planned_ -

‘If I’d said no,’ he asks, looking up through the tangle of hair falling into his eyes, ‘would you have used these for that hot bartender instead?’

Novak quirks an eyebrow. ‘I do not know,’ he breathes, leaning down to press his quizzical smile to Sascha’s mouth, the heat and weight of him a pleasant torment, ‘are you saying no?’

‘No, I mean of course not, I mean-’ Sascha groans and pushes up into Novak’s hand when it finds his cock again, fingers pushing past sweat-damp cotton to brush bare skin. ‘Fuck me, I want-’

‘You want a lot of things, Alexander,’ Novak says into the panting heat of their mouths together, and yanks Sascha’s jeans down to his thighs. ‘It is good that you deserve to have them.’

Too far gone to speak, trembling on the brittle edge of losing control, Sascha can’t come up with any kind of reply. All he can do is try to cooperate as Novak gets rid of his jeans entirely, underwear with them, cock springing up hard and red against his stomach. Drifting a fingertip down it, ticklish-soft, Novak hums something appreciative.

‘You were right about all over,’ he murmurs. When he finally, _finally_ wraps his hand around it, skin to skin, it’s the praise as much as the friction that jerks a cry from Sascha’s throat.

However, when Novak’s other hand hesitates against the bandage on his thigh, he swallows an altogether different sound.

‘I am not _broken_ ,’ he snaps, blinking sweat from his eyes to glare up at Novak. The room isn’t over-warm but they’re both gleaming with sweat now, slicking the tabletop underneath Sascha until he slides a little with every roll of his hips. It makes it harder to judge distance when he lifts his right leg but he manages not to kick Novak in the face when he rests his calf on the Serb’s shoulder, leg bent back and stretched out, all of him there for the taking. The stretch burns a little in tired muscles but it’s worth it for the amazement on Novak’s face, hand gone slack around Sascha’s cock.

Sascha twitches his hips insistently. Novak blinks, mutters something in Serbian and leans down, too fast so the kiss is more a clash of mouths together, the scrape of teeth and heat and the choked off sound Sascha makes as the position bends him almost in half. Thank fuck for years of physio. Though, Novak’s tongue sliding over his is as distracting as the ache of stretched muscles, his hand exploring Sascha’s cock, his balls, rolling his fingers over every over-sensitive inch of him.

When they slip lower, behind, to rub over Sascha’s hole with the sudden slick of lube though, he gasps into the kiss and grabs blindly for Novak’s shoulder, shuddering and babbling through two languages before he finds the English.

‘No, I’m going to-’ With an inarticulate sound of desperation he pushes Novak back far enough to give him a warning look. Novak’s pupils are blown so wide that his eyes look black in the gloom, a flush highlighting the sharp line of his cheekbones; he looks just a little wild, somehow unbelievably fuckable and Sascha marvels all over again that it’s _him_ that Novak’s looking at like something wonderful.

Looking at like he’d look at someone who’s about to come for him any second because he didn’t stop at Sascha’s warning, hand jerking him even faster and Sascha gasps, and cries out, and breaks apart between Novak’s hands driving him over the edge. Shaking all over orgasm washes over him in a glittering, blinding wave; he thinks he shouts, something wordless and muffled into Novak’s mouth .

By the time he gasps back to coherence, Novak’s lost his own shirt entirely and is knelt over him on the table still, ripping open one of the condoms with his teeth. When he catches Sascha’s dazed look, he pauses with a grin that’s all challenge.

‘Had enough?’

‘ _No_ ,’ Sascha rasps. He’s trembling all over with the aftershocks, muscles sliding toward lethargy but Dominic once got him to come four times in just over an hour; he’d tell Novak that, if he didn’t think Novak would take it as a challenge to make it five. Sascha would actually like to be able to _walk_ out of his hotel tomorrow. ‘Why, do you want to call it a night? Is it past your old man bedtime?’

Novak narrows his eyes, and lets the condom fall to one side; Sascha has a second to worry that he’s actually really offended him before Novak runs his hand, just the right side of rough, up Sascha’s softening cock and thumbs the drips of come from the tip as Sascha stifles a moan. Eyes intent on Sascha’s face, Novak brings his thumb to his mouth and licks it before leaning down, the bitter taste of salt and himself wet on Sascha’s tongue when Novak kisses him.

Well, looks like getting hard again won’t be a problem.

‘I have got all night, _Alexander_ ,’ Novak whispers against his salt-wet mouth. ‘Try and keep up.’

‘Sure,’ Sascha agrees, still dazed and watching Novak when he pulls back, the way he stretches to get rid of his own jeans with shimmies of his hips, and the long, slender curve of his cock when he rolls on the condom. He clearly pays more attention to his tan lines than Sascha; there’s the faint marks of his shirts he wears on court, but pretty much everything all over is the same sun-kissed gold. Even the paler briefs-shaped triangle around his hips has a warm tint.

Sascha just has time to wonder if Novak sunbathes naked, to feel his own cock twitch at the idea of them daring to fuck on a sunbed somewhere under a clear sky, before Novak’s settling back between his thighs.

‘Like what you see?’ he asks Sascha with the lazy assurance of a rhetorical question, only Sascha’s been watching him for hours now and catches the brief crack of doubt underneath. Without hesitation Sascha lifts his leg back up to hook over Novak’s shoulder, reaching out to run a reverent palm down the length of Novak’s chest, the sticky wetness left behind there from Sascha’s come.

‘Yeah,’ he breathes,’ and grins. ‘All over.’

Novak blinks, startled out of his cockiness and Sascha would swear on his next match win that the flush of colour over his cheeks can’t be explained by the warmth of the room alone, that Novak’s actually blushing.

‘Getting better at the sweet talk; you’ve been paying attention,’ is all he says and pushes a lube-slick finger in so fast that Sascha loses the ability to breathe for a second.

Pace set, Novak works him fast, stretching him with a second finger – it’s been a while since Dominic but they’d been so rushed, always, shower sex never leaving much time for foreplay and Sascha got in the habit of keeping himself a little looser just in case, keeping it up the last few months out of miserable hope. It’s only a few minutes before he gasps, ‘Okay, now please, _please.’_

Novak gives him a contemplative look but slides his fingers free with a twist that catches a cry between Sascha’s clenched teeth. When he pushes in the first blunt inch though, Sascha shakes and curses under his breath.

‘Okay?’ Novak asks. His voice is grated down to a rasp with effort, the strain of holding still clear from the way his hands tremble tight, bruising tight on Sascha’s hips. ‘I can-’

‘Don’t stop, just- wait,’ Sascha rasps, and gulps in air until he can feel himself start to relax, the stretch easing over into something skirting the edge of really good. ‘Okay, okay go now-’

Novak pushes in hard and it isn’t really good; it’s _fantastic_. It takes them a few thrusts to get in a rhythm, a few fumbled hand holds around the unfamiliar shape of each other but they’ve been mapping each other by sight and touch all night, and they work it into something as smooth as the best kind of rally, Sascha pushing up in time to Novak’s pace, with music thumping through the walls like it’s keeping time.

When Sascha fumbles down to his own cock, desperate, Novak twines their fingers together over it and keeps it just short of punishing, dragging it out with bringing Sascha right to the edge – and then squeezing hard enough for the bite of pain to reel him back. Both of them are making too much noise, helpless to hold back the cries but the music must be drowning them out and Sascha doesn’t care, giving himself up to the stretch and the friction, the heat that’s building beneath every inch of skin and muscle until he can hardly feel anything but where they touch, breath almost sobbing in his throat.

It’s so _good_ and Sascha’s fast-scattering thoughts wonder if Novak practiced this on Andy, or if dragging it out like this is Andy’s trick, or if perhaps someone pinned Novak down in a bar when he was twenty-one and taught him with the same half-taunting, half-sincere kindness. He wonders if Andy would fuck him with the same rhythm, grey eyes intent on Sascha’s face instead of hazel – if Novak fucked Dominic after this, would he notice anything of Sascha’s.

Novak’s teeth on his lower lip snaps him out of it, the bruising heat of it like a jolt. Sascha blinks sweat from his eyes and tries to focus, vision blurring every time Novak slides in.

‘Penny for your thought?’ Novak whisper, voice gone ragged with effort. Sascha’s not any better, panting and sound raw in his throat.

‘Wondering- how you got so good at -this.’

‘Same as tennis, Sascha,’ Novak says with a wry twist to his smile, ‘practice make perfect’, and before Sascha can remark on the use of his nickname at last, Novak speeds up with his free hand bracing Sascha against the slick table as it creaks; the only sound that makes it out of Sascha’s gritted teeth after that is a moan.

The heat builds and builds until he feels on fire, muffling his cries into Novak’s mouth. He’s a taut curve over Sascha, all half-shadowed gold and gleaming sweat, mouth a slick warmth where it slips over Sascha’s on every thrust and Sascha feels himself wind up tighter until he can hardly breathe under the weight of it, glittering heat stoked in their movements gone frantic, off-balance. He gets his free hand up to Novak’s side, his shoulder, grounding himself in the flex of sweat-damp skin over tennis muscles and gasps, almost incoherent, ‘ _Novak_ -’ before he feels himself shatter.

Arcing off the table he comes so hard he sees stars behind screwed-shut eyes, everything gone but the waves bliss drawn out under their hands.

After that Sascha loses all track of time and coherence – he can’t feel anything beyond where they’re tangled together, the bursts of heat with every press of Novak inside – but after a minute he hears Novak’s gasps take on a desperate edge, the stutter of the rhythm and he summons every scrap of training he’s put his body through for the last decade to make his muscles clench down, to murmur in a raspy whisper, ‘Come on Nole,’ and the broken sound Novak makes, muffled into the press of his mouth on Sascha’s, says that was enough.

Novak goes still over him, trembling. Sascha runs soothing hands up his sides, over the damp softness of his hair, trailing kisses aimlessly over his mouth and cheek before Novak exhales, all his worked up tension relaxing. After a minute, seemingly unable to hold himself up any longer he slides out with a shared gasp and he collapses, loose-limbed and panting, in a sprawl beside Sascha on the abused table.

‘That was- something,’ he says, after a long few minutes where they both try to catch their breath. He shifts minutely to rest his head on Sascha’s shoulder, draping an arm over his sticky stomach and groans. ‘God, you must remind me to not do this without a mattress ever again.’

‘I’m just glad the table didn’t collapse,’ Sascha says thoughtfully, and Novak groans.

‘We are not off it yet; do not tempt fate.’

He’s quiet for a long moment, breathing slowing to a regular warmth against Sascha’s shoulder. Not sure what they do now – how do you end a sex hookup with one of your main rivals when there’s no coaches yelling for you to get out the showers before you wash away, or the deadline of practice times looming, or flights to make? Sascha has no idea so he waits quietly, adjusting his necklace so the chain isn’t almost-strangling him where it’s got caught beneath his shoulder and, as if it’s an afterthought, letting his hand creep down to tangle in Novak’s where it rests on his come-sticky stomach.

Novak’s fingers tense for a moment and then open to his, thumb tucking in against the racquet callus on Sascha’s palm.

‘Sascha,’ he says after another minute of the weirdly comfortable half-cuddling, ‘About earlier. I think I owe you an apology.’

Sascha squeezes his hand in silent reassurance. ‘No, it’s fine. I was an idiot for walking off like that instead of explaining, of course you were worried. That guy could’ve been anyone-’

‘No, not that.’ Novak sighs, not lifting his head. His thumb is tracing anxious circles against Sascha’s palm. ‘When you ask about Andy – I think I am okay with it all you know, that I am over it, but I have not talked about it so much before. Not like I can analyse it in press after a match you know? I did not think I was still- that upset. Sorry.’

Sascha thinks about muttering a polite acceptance and moving on. Thinks about the brittle edge in Novak’s admission, the way he’d been wound up tight with hurt when he’d snapped at Sascha earlier.

That he’d come to find Sascha in spite of that, to make sure he was okay.

Voice surprisingly steady, Sascha says, ‘In Australia this year after I lost, I told Dominic that I love him and I want us to be exclusive. No more using Kiki to distract everyone with, no more lying. No more hiding.’

Novak goes still against him; he seems to be holding his breath. ‘What did he say?’

‘He said-’ There’s the thickness of tears threatening to lump in Sascha’s throat but he swallows them down; he’s cried enough over this. ‘He told me I’m stupid, it’s impossible. That I’d ruined everything and then he walked out and he’s barely spoken to me since.’

Novak breathes something that’s probably a Serbian curse and pushes up on one elbow so he can meet Sascha’s eyes, damp despite his best efforts. The Serb looks tired suddenly, understanding rather than sympathetic.

‘You know he is probably only scared,’ he says softly. ‘It is a lot to ask someone, to take that responsibility.’

‘He didn’t even _try_ -’ Sascha has to stop when his voice cracks, staring past Novak at the shadowy ceiling for a minute until he’s sure he has a grip on himself. His back is turning into one solid ache on the hard tabletop but if he breaks the fragile understanding by moving now, he might never say this to anyone ever again.

‘I don't want to spend the next decade or more of my life pretending not to want what I want,’ he says, stumbling over it a little with the effort of keeping it steady. ‘Being miserable pretending not to love who I love.’

There’s a distant look in Novak’s eyes when he sighs. ‘Is not about hiding, Sascha. If you tell everyone – if Dominic say yes, of course, we get married, we can be example for all the tour – to them all, how much will you be a tennis player and how much only be where your dick go at night? How will you play each other without the press making it about how impossible it is to be fair when you are also fucking? Sport is not kind. How long before he hate you for doing that to him?’

Sascha swallows against an instinctive protest because Novak’s right, of course, but- ‘It shouldn’t _matter_ . We can still play each other now, you and Andy played each other for years; pretending otherwise is _bullshit_.’

Novak’s wry smile is nothing like happy. ‘I know. Even when I am doing it, I know. But it is how it is.’

With an effort and a twinge of protest from his thigh, muted now, Sascha struggles upright. Novak comes with him so they’re sitting side by side, feet dangling and Novak’s shoulder pressing warm against his, both a little sticky still. The music through the walls is quieter, toning down, so it’s probably time to be thinking about leaving,to Novak’s hotel room or alone. They shouldn’t risk it really; Novak’s right of course. If anyone found out about this, about any of them, it would never just be about tennis ever again.

Sascha thinks about the man who’d pulled him out onto that dance floor without a second thought, who’d smiled at Sascha like he was looking at something beautiful and nothing else mattered. How easy it would’ve been, until the fact that Sascha was a tennis player and in front of countless cameras, journalists, eagle-eyed fans from all over the world, made it anything but easy in the end.

Without looking at Novak he says, soft, ‘It has to change some day.’

Novak squeezes the hand Sascha had forgotten he was holding. ‘It doesn’t,’ he says, equally soft, but just before Sascha can take a breath to argue, he adds, ‘but it might.’

When Sascha glances up, startled, Novak meets him with the quizzical little smile, the one that says he’s trying to puzzle Sascha out and thinks he might be surprised in the end. ‘Maybe you do better than we did, yeah? Don’t go changing the world overnight though,’ he adds as he slides off the table, starts to tie off the condom they’d both forgotten about, ‘you will make the rest of us look like slackers.’

‘Wouldn’t want to show you up, old man,’Sascha agrees, still trying to come to terms with the fact that Novak thought _he_ might be able to do something they hadn’t, something this big and world-changing when Sascha can barely make it into the second week of a Slam.

He’s distracted from wondering if he finds that inspiring or utterly terrifying, by Novak looking like he’s about to discard the condom carelessly on the floor.

‘ _No,_ ’ Sascha warns, and smacks Novak lightly on the shoulder. ‘Which of us is the responsible adult here, really?’

‘The amount I pay Nicholas to keep us from being disturbed, is the least he can do,’ Novak says with petulant edge but he lets Sascha take the condom from him and go in search of a wastebin around the room. After he finds one over by the empty bar, he turns back to find Novak watching him with a grin and glances down, realising he’s still naked and he’s just given Novak a free show.

‘You did that on purpose,’he says with weary suspicion as he gets back to the table. With an air of innocence, Novak hands him his jeans.

‘I would not dream of such,’ he says. ‘After all, I can watch you in the locker room any time I want.’

‘I’m alright with that,’ Sascha agrees and enjoys the way Novak’s grin wavers, caught off-guard. ‘I meant it about the practice courts too. Any time you want.’

‘Do not make offers you might regret,’ Novak warns but he reaches out, reeling Sascha in for another kiss which is lopsided and sweet with the curve of his smile, so familiar now, his hands steady on Sascha's hips. When he takes a deep breath without leaning back, Sascha knows to wait.

‘When you talk to him, take it slow,’ Novak says, so soft Sascha has to strain to hear even this close. ‘If he did not love you back, he would not be so afraid of how badly this may go.’

Sascha nods, just a tip of his head to avoid bumping together. ‘And when you talk to Andy-’ Novak’s sigh cuts him off. ‘I mean it. If I have to try, so do you.’

‘It’s too late for me,’ Novak mutters. He sounds almost resigned but Sascha makes a dismissive snort, leaning back to meet Novak’s frown with a roll of his eyes.

‘Don’t be stupid,’ he says, feeling his grin crinkle a little teasing, still honest. ‘You’re not _that_ old.’

 

*

 

Back in Novak’s hotel room, in the dark after, Sascha rolls away from Novak’s loose-limbed sprawl across the massively-ostentatious bed and fumbles for his phone where he’d tossed it on the nightstand. With clumsy fingers – Novak made it to five in the end, and none of Sascha’s muscles have recovered, might not until Wimbledon – he gets the screen unlocked right on the third attempt and thumbs open a new message. Squinting against the screen glare in the dark, he waits for inspiration.

 _Hi,_ he thumb types and then immediately deletes it. The same happens to _I was thinking, hope u celebrated after the match_ , and in despair at his inability not to sound like an idiot writing a Hallmark card, _guess who I’m in bed with_.

The cursor blinks accusingly at him from the blank box, like it’s as impatient with him as he is with himself. Maybe he’ll sleep on it and send something tomorrow.

‘You had better not be a chicken now,’ Novak says from the darkness across the bed when Sascha starts to put down the phone. ‘If you do not say it now, you will not in the morning.’

‘Say _what_ though?’ Sascha asks miserably.

‘Anything.’ Novak wriggles in close in a rustle of sheets and tucks an arm over Sascha’s waist, all hot bare skin and the soft press of his lips to the back of Sascha’s neck. He smells of clean soap and the shower they’d taken, a little of the whiskey from the minibar that they’d shared to, as Novak put it, _make you appreciate how bad it could have been_. ‘He will not care if it is perfect. Only that you say it.’

Sascha leans back into the warm, comfortable line of him and considers. After an agonising debate, he types,

_Congratulations again for 2day; think you can win now! it’s been a while – want to catch up in Halle? <3 S _

‘Nice,’ Novak murmurs. He’s reading over Sascha’s shoulder. ‘Start with the compliment, soften him up.’

‘I mean it,’ Sascha says, a little indignant at the insinuation that he’s sucking up – although he is, a little. Novak huffs a laugh against his shoulder.

‘Yes, Rafa will step kindly aside from all serves for him because it is time for a new winner of course, everyone is so bored and the new gen should be _handed_ the Slam for the good of tennis, there is no point in playing more matches really-’

‘I don't listen to old men rambling on,’ Sascha says loudly over him and, bracing himself, hits send.

‘Why do we still watch it?’ Novak asks, several minutes of silently staring at the phone later. ‘It is gone three, he will be asleep.’

‘Oh,’ Sascha says, exhaling in relief. ‘Of course he will, he won’t have read it-’

The phone lights up in his hand and he almost fumbles it twice, once in shock and again when Novak elbows him in the ribs trying to see the screen.

‘What did he say?’

 _Thanks Sasch,_ Sascha reads. His heart is doing a funny, fluttering quickstep in his chest but Novak is a reassuringly warm brace behind him. _Hope u’re ok, I was worried, Would <3 to catch up. Usual place?;) D _

‘What is the “usual place”?’ Novak asks and then hums a thoughtful sound. ‘Ah, Halle was the showers yes?’

‘Yeah.’ Sascha stares at the message, trying to reread between the lines; they never incriminate themselves in writing just in case but _I was worried_...it has to be good, that Dominic was thinking of him right? That he replied at three a.m., that he didn’t brush it off. Still- ‘Maybe usual place is a bad thing. Maybe he means we'll go back to not being serious, to just fucking in the showers.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Novak mumbles. He already sounds halfway back to sleep, gone relaxed and sprawled against Sascha’s back. ‘He is telling you he still want you. Take it slow and do not rush him, you will get there.’

‘Yeah.’ Sascha reads the message one last time, feeling something fragile and shining like hope curl behind his ribs as he taps out a quick reply: _I’m all good, just wanted to hear from you. Go to sleep, you have a Slam to win! See you in Halle. :)_ and puts the phone down after sending. Turning over, he wriggles into the warm nest of pillows and duvet and hot, sleepy Serb, ignoring Novak’s mumbled protest at the jostling. He curls his fingers into Sascha’s when their hands find each other under the sheets though and Sascha lies there for a few minutes, listening to the echo of their breathing.

‘Novak?’

Novak groans. ‘Quiet, I am old. I need all my beauty sleep.’

Sascha grins into the darkness. ‘You know, rumour is that Andy’s playing Queens.’

With a mutter of dire punishments to be rained down on interfering Germans, Novak buries his face against Sascha’s chest. ‘No.’

‘They’d give you a wildcard if you asked.’

‘Shut up.’

‘I’m just saying, it could be an opportunity.’

‘Good _night_ Alexander.’

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
